


Telephone Road

by philomel



Category: Leverage RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Chris has poor phone etiquette and abuses a remote control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telephone Road

Chris is in the middle of Georgia, on his way up from Nashville to Smith's, devouring a plateful of potato salad so deep and thick he thinks he might give up pussy for it, when he remembers that he was supposed to call Jensen back. He remembers this because his phone starts ringing and when he reluctantly disengages his fist from his fork to pull the damn thing quickly out of his back pocket (Steve must've messed with it and changed the ringtone to fucking disco again, the asshole), he sees "Jen" on the display window and thinks, "shit," "voicemail" and "three weeks ago?" in that order. While he flips it open, grumbling out a garbled "yeah" around a mouthful of potato salad, he corrects himself, thinking, "no, four weeks" and, observantly, "a month." He cringes and swallows, cooking up an excuse even though there really isn't one 'cause, look, it's not like he's been on the road long enough to lose his bearings. But then he hears his agent's rapid fire, _like_ teenaged even though she's _like_ nearing 50, voice on the other end and grins.

When Jensen calls him again a week later, Chris makes sure to tell him the story about how he confused his curvy, collagen-lipped, middle-aged agent for Jensen — before he even tells him about the new tv gig.

* * *

"It's like fucking _A-Team_ , man."

He's sitting at a booth in some Shoney's in North Carolina, eating hush puppies that taste more like breaded and fried shoes (he curses Shoney's for making him own up to the fact that he knows that there are such shoes as hush puppies) than actual food. There's a kid in the booth behind him who keeps bouncing up and down, so much so that Chris is bouncing up and down in his seat by proxy, and he's already spilled Coca Cola on his third-favorite flannel — the one with the frayed bit along the collar from where that redhead in Chattanooga pulled the shirt off him using just her teeth. Maybe if he's lucky, the drink'll just eat straight through the cotton instead of staining. And if the kid's lucky, he'll listen to his mama and sit the fuck still soon. And if Steve is lucky, he'll stop grinning at the kid — which, Chris thinks, is only encouraging the little over-sugared midget. He stretches his arm along the top of the booth, weighing the moral pros and cons of _accidentally_ elbowing the kid mid-bounce, when he hears Jensen clearing his throat (and by "clearing his throat," Chris means actually saying the word "ahem" with all the subtlety of an 8 year old's bathroom joke) on the other end of the line.

"Yeah? What was that?"

"I said— hey, you aren't whacking off, are you?"

"Yeah, I'm spanking it in the middle of a goddamned Shoney's."

"'Cause I hear repetitive squeaking."

"There's this kid—"

"I do not need to know this."

"Fuck you, Ackles." But he's smiling around the words, and not just because the waitress with her pants so tight you can tell she's not wearing any panties just dropped her stack of menus and is bending over, ass aimed perfectly in Chris's direction.

"I don't do phone sex, Kane."

The kid lands hard after a particularly exuberant bounce out of his seat and Chris smacks his palm against the top of the booth in irritation — apparently loud enough for Jensen to hear it.

"I'm sorry if that disappoints you, darling." Jensen's shit-eating grin must be so huge, Chris can pretty much see it from way across the country.

"Nah, you only say that 'cause you know I'd ruin you for all phone usage. Pop one every time you hear it ring."

"Who says I don't now?"

"Huh. Looks like Pavlov got to you before I did."

"Yep. I salivate every time I hear bells too."

"Thought it was balls. So easy to get those mixed up."

"'Cause one kind makes noise and the other... doesn't."

"Boy, if they're not making noise, you're not doing it right."

Jensen honest-to-god snorts. Chris can just picture Jensen laughing like that, the way he does when he's caught off guard enough to snort, eyes shut so tight they crinkle, head bowing slightly and body bending forward with it. It's not as great as getting Jensen to lose his shit completely (there was only one time Chris managed to push Jensen into a full-on giggle fit, and they'd smoked enough to need a roach clip by that point, so it hardly counts), but Jensen is usually so deadpan that getting him to snort is a fair decent accomplishment too.

"So, which one are you? 'Cause you seem a little pale for Mr T." Jensen pauses. "And small."

Chris stabs at his hush puppy in reaction to the dig. It rolls around on his plate and, by the third try, he's managed to spear it on his fork and catch up with Jensen's tangential return to an abandoned topic.

"I'm the Mr. T that Mr. T wishes he coulda been. With better hair."

"More doesn't equal better."

"Does so. Fool."

"Don't pity me. I think maybe you'd make a better Murdock."

"This guy? Could kick Murdock's ass. And Mr. T's. And Dean Winchester's."

"You wish, man."

"Hell, this guy's hair could kick Dean's ass."

"You're getting a bit Samson-like about that hair of yours."

"It's mighty powerful stuff. You can ask all the ladies, they'll tell ya."

"I think you're compensating."

"I think you're jealous."

Chris catches something about "the ladies" before he drops the phone — which is just after the kid behind him bounces with his arms in the air and smacks Chris in the back of the head with the hand that's holding a drumstick of fried chicken. Chris is so busy _it's okay_ -ing and _no problem, really, ma'am_ -ing his way through the mother's contrition that he forgets all about the phone call until well after the woman and her buoyant son have left and well after Chris has finished picking flakes of crispy chicken coating from his hair and well after Steve has stopped laughing.

* * *

"This is why I always wear a condom. I might even start wearing two."

"You can never be too safe. Why not try five?"

It’s late at night, though not so late on the other coast, when Chris finally calls Jensen back. Chris has just come out of the shower, having just washed his hair with the hotel brand bottle of shampoo — which out of pure dumb luck happens to be fucking _freesia_ scented, so that now he smells like a damn girl, but he figures it's gotta be better than smelling of greasy fried chicken. Not to mention, the bar they played at is one of those that still allows smoking and it's not that he minds, really, but he doesn't necessarily like the way it sticks around afterward, making him smell of ashtray.

"Greasy ashtray," he mutters into the phone.

"Wash it," Jensen says.

"I did. I mean, talking 'bout my hair."

"Again," Jensen interjects.

"Point I'm trying to make is," Chris continues. "Is kids are great. When they're someone else's."

"When you can give 'em back at the end of the day."

"Right."

"After they're done washing your hair."

"Now, Jensen, you know I don't use slave kids to wash my hair anymore. I get my washing wenches to do it."

"Your shampoo sluts."

"My conditioning concubines." Chris slumps into the chair by the desk, damp skin sliding, sticking and squeaking against the vinyl backing. He runs his fingers through his wet hair, shakes his head like a dog and curls his fingers around the sweaty neck of his beer bottle to take a swig. "Not that I condition."

"'Course not. You're all man. With your long, flowing locks."

"Shit, is the boy with the Maybelline lashes and the Angelina Jolie lips actually trying to emasculate me? 'Cause I think we might have ourselves a contradiction here, folks."

"You know damn well that, put together, we'd make the prettiest lady-man ever."

"If I didn't have such a gigantic cock, I'd probably take offense to that statement."

"Same here."

"Aw good. Nice to hear you have an appreciation for my cock too. 'Though I don't know how you'd know."

"That you have one? Just an assumption."

"That it's gigantic."

"Compared to what? A fruit fly?"

Chris looks around, scanning the desk for a ruler or some kind of measuring device. It's only when he has the phone cradled in the crook of his neck, his towel open and is holding the television remote control in one hand with his penis alongside it in the other that he realizes what a completely dumbass thing he is doing. And yet that doesn't stop him from saying, "It's bigger than the remote."

Jensen barks out a laugh. There's a thump and a rustle as if Jensen dropped the phone, then there's laughter in Chris's ear again. "I can't believe you." Jensen wheezes and coughs. He's dead mock-serious when he continues. "Is it one of those tiny remotes? The little, teeny tiny, minuscule ones with barely enough room for the numbers and power buttons?"

"Fuck you. It's a big honkin' remote. It's so big, it's basically just a stick you use to poke the tv with from across the room."

"So, you could turn on the tv with your dick? Or is that the other way around?"

"Both. Depending on what's on."

"Well, it's not Thursday night, so I'm sorry to say you can't jerk off to my face."

"Thank God. 'Though, you know, if they just zoomed in on your lips, you can't blame a fellow if he got confused."

"You seem a bit fixated on my lips."

"Just like you seem a bit fixated on my hair."

"No, again, that's your fixation. Though it does remind me of my ex's hair."

"Back atcha, with the lips."

"Seriously? That's your comeback? That's all you got?"

"Huh."

"Chris?"

"Yeah?"

"You don't still have the remote up against your junk, do you?"

Truth be told, he did. The only exception being that he was only holding the remote now while his other hand held the phone, because maybe he didn't really have to hold onto his cock so much anymore. And maybe he wasn't really holding the remote still so much as he was rubbing one side of it (the side with the spongy, rounded buttons that felt really nice) ever so lightly along the length of his cock. And maybe he was stiffening a little more under the constant feel of the buttons bumping softly over his skin. And maybe he'd stiffened, too, at the thought of Jensen's full lips — only in the way in which they were like Angelina Jolie's and could probably suck cock better than the best porn star combined with the most seasoned hooker. The point being that no man can keep his mind off sex for very long, especially when he's holding his cock in his hand and, once gravity has started taking the blood flow in the direction gravity is wont to go, well, there's just no sense in trying to figure things out from there.

Jensen's voice lowered. "You do, don't you?"

Chris usually prides himself on being an honest man. But sometimes pride needs the pick-me-up of a lie or two. "No."

"You're almost as bad a liar as you are an actor." The teasing tone of Jensen's voice is so quiet, it comes out as a purr. He hangs onto the word "bad" too long. It makes Chris's breath catch, as does the swivel of his thumb over the head of his cock. "You know I don't do phone sex," Jensen continues.

"Fine. 'Cause that's not what I'm doing."

"Fine."

"Fine." Chris draws out the vowel until the word stretches itself into something that's much less of a word and maybe a little bit of a whine — or something more manly, like a groan. Yeah, just like that. Chris definitely thinks that's a groan he hears on the other end of the line. "Whatcha doing there, Jensen? You not still obsessing over my hair, are ya?"

"No," he says, voice snap-short and gruff. "Definitely not thinking 'bout how someone might hold onto it, grab a fistful of it and yank your head back while they rode you."

Chris drops the remote and nearly drops the phone. "Boy," he says, voice dropping low now too as his hand grips tight, angling just right so that the calluses on his fingertips catch while he's stroking his cock. "If your mouth does as much dirty stuff as the words that come out of it, you shoulda been able to blow your way to an Academy Award by now."

Jensen huffs out a laugh, and Chris imagines the air of it hitting his cock, ruffling the hairs below his belly. No reason to pretend anymore, he lets his imagination unravel a little bit more: loosens his hand to let his thumb scrape down his abdomen, picturing Jensen's nose bumping into him there as he takes Chris all the way down.

"You— you don't need to blow anyone when you got a dick like mine."

Chris laughs now too. Figures Jensen'd still be all sass and bullshit, even like this. "You think you can measure up?"

"Ya kidding? They're talkin' about creating a new measuring system just for me."

"Yeah, but can you change tv channels from across the room?"

"Fuck that, man. I can change _your_ tv's channels from _here_."

The image of a cartoonish, pole-like penis arching across America flashes through Chris's mind, then recedes back into something more realistic: just Jensen, licking at his own open lips, head lolling on his neck, his thick arm roped with veins and twitching tendons as he pumps into his fist so fast that it's a blur of fingers and tight balls and the red, slick head of his cock. It might be closer to the truth than Chris thinks. Jensen's panting full-on now. It's getting hard for Chris to think of clever retorts, or even speak at all for that matter. He's close. He wants to know if Jensen is too, but it feels like too much, too intimate a thing to say, which is stupid considering how they're both jerking off to the sounds of each other's heavy breathing over the phone. The terrycloth towel beneath his ass is starting to chafe his thighs from where he's thrusting up into himself, and he's about to curse it, but only gets out a short-clipped "Fuck—" when he hears Jensen moan. It's not loud and exaggerated and drawn out like the girls sometimes do — faking at being porn stars, if they aren't actually porn stars. It's breathy and quiet, strained like Jensen's holding it back, but like it's getting out just the same: an unstoppable force that rumbles its way past Jensen's lips, into Chris's ear and making him tremble like he hasn't trembled with anyone in years. And certainly not by himself. It travels right down the line of his spine, coiling then uncoiling as abruptly as it came over him. And that's it, he's gone, spilling over his hand, onto his stomach and thigh.

Chris slouches down in the chair until his head hits the metal rung at the back of it, and opens his legs wide, curling his toes into the short pile of the carpet. He nudges his shoulder up against the phone, pinning it to his ear while he shakes the tension out of his hand, flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles. With his other hand, he tugs at the towel from between his legs and dabs lazily at his stomach and the crook of his thigh, then takes extra care as he gingerly pats around his cock. After he wipes his hand, he grabs the phone again, switching ears. He hears nothing on the other end of the line.

"Jensen?"

Still nothing. So he checks the phone, appraising the bars on the display with an arched eyebrow. Satisfied with that, he angles the phone against his ear again and listens. He thinks he hears the sound of breathing, but it's really faint.

"Jensen!"

There's a snort. Only, it's more of a snore than a snort. "Mmm?"

"You did not just fall asleep on me."

"No, uh. Ow." There's the scratching of movement against the receiver. "No," Jensen says more clearly. "I fell asleep on my nunchuck controller."

"Christ on a corn cob, you're one of _those_. And I don't wanna know what you were doing with that nunchuck controller."

"Shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain, Chris. Not when it comes to vegetables anyway. And what, are you saying you're a cuddler?"

"Ain't saying nothing like that. Bitch."

"Christian Kane cuddles after sex! Oh, that's going on a bathroom wall somewhere."

"Right next to 'Jensen Ackles gives the best head.'"

"You know it."

"No, I really don't."

Chris doesn't hear anything else, and he's about to ask if Jensen fell asleep again or check if he used up all his minutes when he hears: "Well, get your ass back to the west coast and find out."

* * *

Chris is in the middle of his L.A. apartment, on his way to a meeting with his agent. He's got his boots on, his shirt buttoned and sleeves pushed up the way he likes them. He's got his jeans on too, of course. Well, mostly on, because they're bunched down around his ankles, with his big silver belt buckle scuffing up the hardwood floor. He's also got the tight-wet heat of Jensen Ackles’s mouth around his (and, really, he's just being humbly sincere about this) gigantic cock, and thinks he might give up pussy for it at this rate, when he remembers that today is Saturday and the appointment's not until Monday afternoon. Not that that's going to stop him right now. It'll just mean a bit less rush — he slides two fingers into Jensen's mouth to slow him down, relishing the startled sound and the stern glare he gets in response — and a bit more time to be creative. He's got a few ideas about something with a remote control.

**Author's Note:**

> • Beta: raynemaiden.
> 
> • Title stolen from the song by Steve Earle (as opposed to the actual Texas road).


End file.
